


Dixon Hill and the Swan's Diamonds

by Oparu



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-29
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little fluff piece for a challenge. Jean-Luc enjoys a Dixon Hill novel with Deanna, Will and Beverly all playing a part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dixon Hill and the Swan's Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> Grafinya equates to countess in Russian.

She wore it like a second skin, as if the fur turned her into an otherworldly creature. The dark, blood-red bow of her lips pursed in frustration. "I expected more from you, Mr. Hill," she said, tapping long, bright red fingernails on his desk. They glinted in the weak light of his lamp like bloodstained claws. She was danger wrapped in an enigma but she had the money and he had bills to pay.

"It's only been two days," he said, hands open in surrender. "You told me a week."

"A week!" she snapped in her thick Russian accent, slamming her hand on his desk. Her bodyguard jumped back; perhaps he'd misread the relationship. A petite woman and a large, intimidating man: surely the man was the bodyguard?

Jean-Luc Picard continued to be impressed by Deanna's acting ability as she got to her feet, further berating his incompetence in a harsh Russian accent. It took a conscious effort not to squirm back from her.

"I'll find it," he promised, glad the desk was between them.

Deanna, who was playing Grafinya Vladimra Dobryna Rashchupkina, threw money onto the desk. Jean-Luc picked up his retainer fee and the coffee cup she'd knocked over.

"See that you do, Mr. Hill," she growled. "I grow impatient waiting for you to detect things. That is what you do, is it not?" She gave him a final stinging glare and swept from his office in a wave of expensive perfume and with a swish of her fur coat.

Will, who was playing the mysterious bodyguard who followed around the Grafinya, broke character and grinned at him. "Good luck," he whispered under his breath. "Isn't this fun?" Will slipped out of his office and Jean-Luc sank into his chair with a heavy sigh of relief.

He could blame Beverly, he thought, staring up at the ceiling where the cheap light fixture flickered. She thought he needed 'more of a challenge' and had somehow, through her own feat of detective skill, found a Dixon Hill holonovel he had never played nor even heard of.

Inviting Deanna and Will to the game was the cruel icing on a very sweet victory for her. This case was difficult. He'd been shot at, in two fist fights, nearly trapped in a warehouse about to explode and he was only on the third chapter.

Picking up the money from the desk, he counted it as he put it away into his wallet. The mysterious woman of the third chapter was not Beverly, which meant he was still waiting for her to appear. She'd come to the holodeck after he had, so not to give away the surprise. Waiting for her was nearly as exciting as the case because he'd been dying to get her back in the world of Dixon Hill for nearly three years.

As he tucked his wallet away, Jean-Luc caressed the stiff paper ticket in his hand. It was his only clue. A nickel theatre right on the end of Dungeon alley, so far removed from the right part of town that water ran upstream to escape. Grabbing his trench coat and tucking his faithful sidearm into the breast pocket, Jean-Luc slapped on his hat and headed into the street.

The holodeck obediently created seedy street after sordid alley until he was there in the thick of the downtrodden underbelly of the city by the bay. Like rats, most of this street scurried from the light of the day and even a private dick stood out like a prince in amongst the lowlifes and rabble. He followed the street, ducking around street lamps and goons with their hats pulled low.

The ticket stub read "247 West Ritter street", and the grimy, half-rusting number above the door of the door of the theatre. It was too early for the show, but he headed in anyway. Jean-Luc was half way in the door when he heard voices.

"Why do you insist on being so difficult?" The thick accent had to be Deanna- the Grafinya- he corrected in his head.

"I ask simple question, you give a simple answer, we will all go home," the Grafinya continued, still furious.

The other voice was female, and the sound trembled, as if the owner too was quivering like a new deer.   
"I've told you," the dame answered meekly. "I don't know where it is."

There was a sharp crack of bone against flesh, and a pause, someone- Will- was definitely laughing.

"You really hit me," Beverly complained, stunned.

Deanna's voice was her own again. "I'm so sorry," she said, obviously mortified. "I got carried away."

"With a hell of a right hook," Will teased.

"Beverly?"

"I'm fine," Beverly promised. "Next time, I'm playing the villainness and a certain counselor better be careful."

"It says I hit you in the plot," Deanna defended herself weakly. "Oh Beverly, I am sorry."

"It's fine, go," Beverly dropped her tone to a whisper. "Go, before Jean-Luc gets here."

He'd been in a crouch, listening. It was entirely unfair, but not surprising that Beverly had let Deanna and Will see the plot. Usually the villain had to know how the story was supposed to unfold but he couldn't help being a little jealous. After waiting long enough to make sure the Grafinya and her bodyguard were gone, he crept out.

Beverly stood alone on an empty stage, hands over her face. She wore a simple grey suit, cut to hug the curves of her figure like rubber tires on the open road. Her hat was on the dirty floorboards of the theatre. Deanna must have hit her hard enough to knock it free. Picking it up and dusting off the feather cresting it, he held it up.

"Forgive me, ma'am," he said gruffly. "You seem to have dropped this."

Her brilliant blue eyes were full of amusement, even though her mascara was running down her cheek. "Thank you," she said softly. She paused and stretched her jaw. A thin line of ruby blood marred her lower lip.

Jean-Luc's eyebrows rose skyward in surprise but he made the effort to stay in character. "Looks like you've had a rough day, princess," he said, digging his handkerchief from his pocket.

"It's fine," she brushed him aside, hands still trembling slightly. He really had not given her enough credit as an actress, even though he'd seen all of her plays. Tears were shining in her eyes and threatening to make a real mess of her makeup.

"You can't expect me to ignore a lady in distress now, can you?" He looked out at her from beneath the rim of his hat and watched her almost smile before she shook her head.

"All right," she allowed.

He smiled reassuringly and gently daubed at her lip. Beverly- or the character- or both- winced but let him continue.

"What's a princess like you doing in a dungeon like this?" Blotting the blood slowly let it clot and he used a fresh corner of his handkerchief on the grey streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

"Definitely not waiting for her fairy godmother," Beverly quipped. She held still, letting him dry her eyes and clean her face. He took his time, carefully getting all traces of her make up off of her skin. He gently examined her bottom lip again and shook his head.

Jean-Luc could feel his heart beating far too quickly and wondered if that was part of the program or just the actress involved. "If we don't get ice on that soon, princess, I'm afraid it'll swell," he told her with a shake of his head.

"I assure you, Sir Galahad or however you are," Beverly said, valiantly resisting his assistance, just like the damsel in distress was supposed to do. "I don't need your help."

"Have it your way," he replied. Callously squaring his shoulders, he touched the brim of his hat to her. "I'll bid you farewell, just keep an eye out, don't let the one who split your lip give you the kiss off," he said, heading for the door. He got a few steps before he heard the clack of heels following him.

"We should split, before anyone comes back," she suggested quickly. Her hands wrung her gloves within them, but she was trying to look nonchalant.

"Just who's coming back, princess?" he asked roughly out of the corner of his mouth.

"No one."

"Course not," he said with a roll of his eyes. Jean-Luc let her leave first. Beverly had only taken a few steps into the street when the heavens opened and poured rain over them like syrup on a shortstack. The rain fell in sheets as grey as the street below.

Beverly gasped, looking up at the sky in surprise. "Is this part of the program?" she asked, breaking character for the first time.

"It's a city known for three things," he said, taking off his coat and draping it quickly over her. "The big house, trigger men and rain, and if you're lucky, you can avoid one of the three."

She smiled at him through the water and pulled his coat tight around her neck. "Which one?"

"That's the rub," he answered mysteriously. "You can't ever know which one."

They hurried through the streets, and both of them were shivering by the time they crept down the street that led up to his office. "Come in and dry off before you head back to your castle," he suggested, reaching for her arm.

She stopped his hand, keeping it at arm's length with her frigid hand. Beverly's teeth were chattering and she shook her head. "This is as far as I can let you take me, good sir," she protested.

"Look, princess, I'm a private dick, there ain't no good or sir about it," he argued, pulling her firmly out of the rain. In the covered doorway of his office building, Beverly smiled, and he saw her in it.

"Well then," she still tried to pull away. "I can neither afford nor do I require your services."

"Come have a cup of tea before you catch your death," he said, acutely aware of how close they were. "On the house," he promised.

Beverly nodded, pulling her hair back and wringing the water out of it. "Just this once."

She followed him up the cramped stairway and paused, smirking at the door. "Dixon Hill, I presume?"

"At your service, princess," he said with a tip of his hat. As he opened the door, he removed his hat and held it against his chest. It was cold, and his suit was just as sodden as hers. The door was narrow and with her there, almost pressed against him in the small space, it was impossible to feel cold, or anything but the presence of her.

"You're too kind," she said, slipping past him.

Even drenched as a drowned rat, he thought he could smell the soft floral scent of her perfume. Beverly took off his trench and he hung it over Ruby's vacant chair in the outer office. It was late, and the game had made the building accordingly deserted. It would take hours to drip dry, and Beverly crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Her teeth were still chattering a little and he almost called for the arch. She saw him looking and shook her head just a little. She wanted to keep going.

Shutting the windows of his inner office, he opened the valve on the radiator and cranked it up to fire and brimstone levels. It would take a while to heat. He snapped his fingers, remembering he had a towel in the closet in the corner. Fishing it out, he handed it to her first.

Beverly pressed her face into it, then squeezed the worst of the water out of her red hair. It was a deeper shade wet. He hadn't realised that before. She held herself stiffly, clutching the towel to her chest. "Well, Mr. Hill, are all your evenings this interesting?"

"Not remotely," he answered too sincerely. "Most are much more dull," he added with a smile. Gently touching the collar of her jacket, he explained, "I've a sweater you can wear. It'll be warmer."

Beverly set the towel down on his desk and obediently released her arms. He peeled the wet suit jacket from her skin, exposing a sodden silk blouse that clung to her like fog on the bay. He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but her chest as he hung her jacket over the radiator. Passing her his old blue cardigan, he watched her button it up with a twinge of regret.

She waved him over with a finger. "You're just as wet as I am," she cooed, slipping her fingers beneath the fabric of his jacket. Her cool hands ran over his wet shirt and enflamed the skin beneath. Her arms were wrapped around him for one perfect moment before she pulled away with his jacket in her hands. She added it to the radiator and her gaze returned to linger on his chest.

Beverly took a step, then another. Her hands went to his chest and rested there, two spots of heat like coals against him. "You really are a gallant knight," she murmured.

"No," he protested weakly. "Just a private dick, looking out for a dame."

Behind her water dripped from their clothing and mixed with the sound of the rain outside. The radiator hissed and rattled. Inside his chest, his heart pounded like a brass band. Beverly's bottom lip was just a little swollen, and the red line of blood was darkening in the air. He shouldn't have been looking at her lips. He should have asked a question, discovered a clue--

She was tentative, testing how much the kiss would sting her lip. After a moment, Beverly's chaste kiss was something wild enough to steal his breath. Now he was the one on the verge of trembling.

"Mr. Hill?" she asked.

Her voice shocked him back but he was lost in her eyes.

"I think I need your help," she whispered, her lips nearly touching his ear.


End file.
